


We Three Kings of Porridge and Stars

by Minim Calibre (minim_calibre)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Christmas, Gen, best laid plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minim_calibre/pseuds/Minim%20Calibre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow is brilliant, except when it's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Three Kings of Porridge and Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themazeballet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themazeballet/gifts).



Lots and lots and lots of things were brilliant.

Polar bears, for example, or sun bears (bears with sun-shaped tattoos growing right on their fur? BRILLIANT!), or, really, any kind of bear. Even the ones that his bear book said weren't really bears, like koala bears and panda bears, were brilliant.  As were otters, and camels (one hump or two, so you could choose, just like with coffee, only with humps instead of lumps, but they sounded the almost same, so it was really close), and hedgehogs. 

Snow, that was usually brilliant, too, especially when it was coming down in big flakes and wrapping up the world in a fluffy white duvet, and especially on Christmas Eve, when it combined two brilliant things into one really, really, really brilliant thing, so it didn't really matter what was in your stocking, because even a lump of coal would seem brilliant on a Christmas Eve with snow.

Arthur stared out the window of the room the man at the front desk had assured them they'd been lucky to book on short notice, what with it being the holidays and all flights in or out cancelled due to an unexpectedly heavy snow, and tried to wrap his head around the mind-boggling concept of snow on Christmas Eve being something other than brilliant. 

With Douglas and Skip arguing in the background, it was easier than he'd have thought.

"..because I'm right!  Arthur, tell Douglas I'm right!"

He'd stopped listening to the words when they got all shouty, so Arthur told himself to smile, because he'd learned something about that making things go over better when he was in Ipswich, and said "Sorry, Skip. What is it you're right about? Because you're talking, or more like yelling, with Douglas, and Douglas is usually right about things because, well, he's Douglas, only I wasn't really paying attention on account of the snow not being brilliant, so you're going to have to repeat yourself."

Martin did that huffy thing with his breath and glowered at Douglas. "As captain, I should get the bed."

"Captain of the aeroplane, Martin. Not, unfortunately for you, captain of the hotel room. For goodness' sake, Martin, look at the sofa. Then look at me. Then go look in the mirror in the loo, and when you're through, come back and tell me which one of us can reasonably be expected to fit on said sofa. I'll give you a hint: it's you."

"He has you there, Skip. Douglas is taller." 

Douglas raised his eyebrows just like he was one of those people in a film who'd just done something really clever, and was surprised it had taken the rest of the people in the film so long to catch up. "Why, so I am. So you see, Martin, you are, as usual, wrong."

It was pretty obvious from the slump of his shoulders that Martin did see it. That Ipswich course was really coming in handy this evening, even if the actual words Martin said were, "Well I don't see why you should get the bed, just because you're taller."

"Tell you what, I'll play you for it."

"Bad idea, Skip," Arthur pointed out. Not that he expected Martin to listen, it was just, well. Bad idea. Even he knew better than to make bets with Douglas. Well, sometimes. Most of the time. If you forgot about the car. And a few other things. But none of them recent! Well, none of them within the last fortnight, at least.

Martin, as expected, didn't listen. He never did. It kind of made Arthur feel like that woman, the one no one listened to. What was her name? Cassidy? Catwoman? Carpark? No, that wasn't a name at all. Oh well, didn't matter.

"You're on. What's the game?"

"I was thinking we could play a few rounds of _Stat, Land, Fluss._ I learnt it from a fellow from Lufthansa. Gunther, as I recall. Nothing too difficult: Arthur here gives us a letter, and you and I try to come up with a city, a country, and a river that begin with it before the other does. Best of five gets the bed."

"Right. I can do that. Can't I? Of course I can."

"Arthur, a letter please."

"What's a good letter to start with?"

"Oh, I don't know. You've got 26 of them to choose from, after all. I myself have always been partial to D and R, but any old letter will do."

"All right then. G."

"Glasgow, Germany, Ganges." Douglas said before Skip had even had a chance to put his thinking face on.

Once it was on, it quickly turned into bit of a frown. "Maybe we should write them down? I mean, wouldn't it be fairer that way?"

"Nonsense, Martin. But if you insist, I will give you a generous five second head start on the next round. Not that I think it will help."

"Fine. Arthur?"

"Yeah, Skip?"

"Next letter, please. And Douglas, I will win this round. I don't think I'll even need your five seconds."

"So you're saying you don't wish for me to give you the head start?"

"I'm saying nothing of the sort. Just that, well. I don't need it, is all."

"OK, chaps. E."

"Edinburgh, England, and..." Martin did the sort of squinchy panicky thing with his nose and bit his lip. "And... hang on. Damn. Edinburgh, England, and... and..."

"Does sir need another five seconds, perhaps?" Douglas interrupted.

"No! Edinburgh, England, and..." a strangled whimpery noise finished the sentence. It did seem to start with an E, though.

"Bad luck, Martin. Time's up. Edinburgh, England, and the beautiful Euphrates. Honestly, it's like you're not even trying. Arthur, I presume the next of your five chosen letters will be R?"

Sometimes, usually two or three or maybe four times per day, Arthur was convinced that Douglas was, in fact, magic. Like now, for example. His next letter was, in fact, R. "Wow! Douglas, how did you know?"

"The G and the E were my first clues. Then there's the fact that GERTI is the only five-letter word I know for certain that you can reliably spell. So to save us all the suspense of this gripping _Stat, Land, Fluss_ battle, or perhaps just to end the farce before Martin bursts into tears: Rome, Romania, and Rhone."

"Douglas, that's not fair!"

"Admit it, Martin, you were defeated before you even began, as per usual." Douglas climbed into the bed, pulling a pair of reading glasses out of his pyjama pocket and flipping open a book as soon as he'd done so.

"Sorry, Skip. If it makes you feel any better, we can trade, and you can sleep on the floor." Arthur had called the floor as soon as they got their room key. He wasn't keen to give it up, but it was Christmas Eve, and poor Skip could use something to cheer him up.

"How on earth would that possibly make me feel better?" 

Oh, right. He'd have to explain. For two awfully clever people, Skip and Douglas sometimes didn't know very much at all. "Well, because when you're on the floor, you can pretend that you've gone camping, and you're sleeping on a soft patch of grass, looking up at the stars, at least if your hotel room has those little sparkly bits in the ceiling like they do if the hotel's really old and a little rundown. Those are brilliant. Or those tiles with the little holes, or any holes, or cracks, even. And if you don't have those, you just close your eyes really tight, and maybe rub your hands over them a little bit, and then: stars! Like magic!"

"If it's all the same to you, Arthur, I'll stick to the sofa."

"OK, Skip, but you're missing out." Arthur took a musty-looking pillow off one end of the sofa, plopped it on the floor, lay down, and looked up at the ceiling. "It's got sparkly bits, and a sort of swirly stain thing that almost looks like a cloud."

"We're snowed in in the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve, Arthur." Martin muttered, fluffing up the remaining pillow and laying down on the sofa. "The last thing I want to see is anything that looks like a cloud."

The room grew silent, interrupted only by the sound of Douglas flipping pages and springs creaking as Martin shifted on the sofa.

"Hey, chaps?" Arthur said when the silence had stretched on a little too long and he was back to wondering how it was that snow wasn't brilliant. 

Douglas peered up from behind his glasses. "Yes, Arthur? Do you have some Christmas Eve wisdom to impart to us all? "

"Well, no. I mean, not really. I was just wondering, if you weren't stuck here in this room, what would  you be doing tomorrow? Mum's having Herc over for Christmas dinner, and then we're all going to sit in front of the fire while we listen to what Mum calls 'appalling warbling nonsense' and drink mulled wine. Only now we're not, or, rather, I'm not, because I'm here, but they're there, so they probably still are,  just without me there. So what about you? What aren't you doing that you would be doing if you were there and not here? "

"So Carolyn's having Herc over for Christmas dinner? Well well, " Douglas said. "As for me, I suppose the usual: ring my daughter first thing to wish her a Happy Christmas, hope that I don't have to spend too much time making awkward small talk with her mother while I wait for her to come to the phone, then spend the rest of the day in the comparative luxury of my bachelor flat whilst I cook a scrumptious meal for one. Maybe do some light reading, or perhaps take a bath in a tub that doesn't look like Herod was king the last time it got scrubbed. And you, Martin? What thrilling plans of yours have been thwarted by snowis interruptus?"

"I'm not that big on Christmas, remember?"

"So sayeth the man who spent last Christmas hand shelling chocolate raisins so that Arthur here could have a stocking. Be that as it may, you are that big on having a day off, especially one where you're virtually guaranteed not have to do your actual, paying job. So surely, you must have some plans."

"No, not really."

"Really, Skip? No plans at all?"

"I'm afraid not, Arthur. Sorry to disappoint."

"Gosh, Skip, if I'd known that, I'd have made sure Mum and I invited you over."

Martin snorted. "Yes, I'm sure Carolyn would have loved that."

"Well I don't see why she wouldn't. She's having Herc over, after all."

"Arthur," Douglas said that bit really slowly, and the next few bits as well. "You do realise having Herc over for Christmas dinner is far different to having Martin over?"

Arthur thought about that for a moment, squinting at the ceiling stars. "Nope," he answered, when he thought he'd thought about it long enough.

"Ah." For a sec, it seemed like Douglas was going to say something else, but he left it at that 'Ah.'

"Well, thank you anyway, Arthur," said Martin. "It's the thought that counts."

The room went back to page flips and spring squeaks for a while after that while Arthur thought some more. And some more after that, and then maybe a little more. 

"So, chaps, you were both going to be alone? On Christmas day? That's... well. Gosh."

"No need to sound so sad about it, Arthur. I mean, I'm used to being alone on Christmas, and Douglas doesn't sound all that broken up about it."

"That's because Douglas is not," came the voice from the bed, but the page flips stopped. "A Christmas spent alone is hardly the end of the world, after all. A Christmas spent with any of my ex-wives, well that would be another story."

"You're not though, are you?"

"Broken up about it?"

"No, alone. Either of you."

Martin stopped squirming on the sofa and looked right at Arthur. Not even Ipswich was helping Arthur figure out what the expression on his face meant. Then Martin's pillow was landing on the floor next to him, followed by Martin himself.

"No, Arthur," he said. "We're not."

From the bed came a quiet, "Ah, what the hell? Why not?" and then Douglas was joining them, making them all budge over so he could arrange the blankets over them while they all looked up at the ceiling from the floor.

"You know, Arthur," he said once he was all settled down,  "that stain looks a little like an aeroplane, don't you think? Martin, what time is it?"

"22:19, Pacific Standard Time. Why do you ask?"

"Because at precisely 23:00 hours, we'll ring Carolyn to wish her a Happy Christmas. And I'll bet you the Brie for the next three flights that she's not the one that picks up."

"What do you mean, she's not the one--" Martin stopped, then started to giggle. "Oh! OH!"

"You know," said Arthur, thinking back to his conversation with her when they'd booked into the hotel, "she did sound awfully pleased that I wasn't going to make it home. Especially when I reminded her that I'd put up all the decorations, including the mistletoe."

And then they were all giggling, and something inside Arthur started to feel all Christmasy and warm.

Snow, thought Arthur, was brilliant after all.


End file.
